


It Must Be Love

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, there are a lot of keats references considering this was actually inspired by a madness song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: “O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? Why aren’t you in there, delighting the damsels?”“I don’t know, Lord Alfred. Why aren’t you?”Alfred simply quirks his lips, giving him an appraising once-over that sends tingles down Drummond’s spine. His eyes hold a wordless invitation as he moves away, and Drummond finds himself following, as though drawn by an invisible thread.Continuation of this scene in 2x03.





	It Must Be Love

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write something with this title since listening to Leo and Jordan’s interview on BBC Radio - that song is just so perfect for these two! How can it be that they can say so much without words, indeed.
> 
> The idea finally came to me in a meeting today, so I had to write it immediately <3

The throne room is warm with the press of twirling bodies. It truly is a spectacular ball, everyone resplendent in outfits of Spitalfields silk. Drummond is proud of the proposal, formed between himself and Alfred, despite the Prime Minister’s clear reluctance to agree with the plan. He had been even more grateful for the event when he had seen Alfred in his costume. Although the same as his own, it gave him far more pleasure to see the way the colours suited Alfred, complementing the already enchanting blue of his eyes.

He finds his own eyes drawn to Alfred now, watching as he twirls around the room, holding another in his arms. The memory of Alfred watching him as they danced next to each other keeps the jealousy somewhat at bay, but suddenly the room is too hot for him to breathe comfortably.

The corridor outside is thankfully a little cooler. He moves further along, where there are no people gathered. The image of Alfred’s smiling face returns to him unbidden, but here, where there is no one to disturb him, he can indulge the thought.

He cannot recall where it all started—which of the fleeting glances across the Queen’s desk had been the one to spark these feelings inside him—but somewhere along the line it had happened. Now every time Alfred says his name, or smiles when their eyes meet, it kindles something within him. The moment he held out his tinderbox on a darkened balcony it had become a fire, burning with a nameless warmth, feeding on the hint of suggestion laced in Alfred’s words.

The sound of soft footfalls behind him draws him from his reminiscence and he turns to see Alfred approaching, as though conjured by his thoughts. Alfred’s smile is radiant when their eyes meet.

“O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?” he says, a playfulness in the words for the benefit of anyone else who would care to listen, but Drummond can hear the caress in his voice that is for him and only him. Alfred gestures back to the hall with a quick jerk of his head. “Why aren’t you in there, delighting the damsels?”

“I don’t know, Lord Alfred,” he breathes. He is suddenly acutely aware that there is no one else around them. He allows himself to smile suggestively at Alfred, unguarded, and chances, “Why aren’t you?”

Alfred simply quirks his lips, giving him an appraising once-over that sends tingles down Drummond’s spine. His eyes hold a wordless invitation as he moves away, and Drummond finds himself following, as though drawn by an invisible thread. He falls into step alongside him.

“Perhaps it is not the damsels I wish to delight,” Alfred whispers, voice low, just as Drummond has given up hope of receiving an answer. It is the most open he has been. Drummond will not allow him to regret the honesty.

“Good,” he replies warmly, hoping that Alfred understands it is because he feels the same.

They turn a corner, but even as the noise of the ball fades into a distant buzz, they become aware of a clamour ahead. It reaches a crescendo as they near the window. Peering out, a mob is clearly visible at the palace gates, even in the darkness.

“Perhaps Sir Robert was right,” Drummond muses. “A ball may not have been the best solution.”

They exchange a glance, both thinking of their proposal to the Queen. Despite the outcome, Drummond finds that he still does not regret the idea, nor the way it had united them in agreement. He can read clearly in his eyes that Alfred feels the same.

By unspoken agreement, they leave the commotion behind and turn further into the palace. Drummond knows that their presence will not be missed at the ball. The dancing and champagne and merriment is enough of a distraction. Beyond the walls of the palace the mob shouts, but nothing will touch the bubble of the occupants within.

He feels no need to ask where they are going—where Alfred is taking them. There is no doubt in his mind. Every moment they have shared over the past few months has been leading them to this.

Alfred’s eyes hold the hint of a question as they draw to a halt in front of a door that Drummond instinctively knows leads to his chambers. He does not need to voice the query. Drummond simply nods, certainty in his smile.

Alfred turns to unlock the door and pushes it open. A hurried glance down the corridor confirms that they are alone, yet he hovers on the threshold, as though afraid to take the final step.

“He took me to his Elfin grot,” Drummond says, echoing Alfred’s earlier recitation. As hoped, it breaks the tension. Alfred cannot help but laugh, low and warm.

“I am certainly no dame,” he responds, as he steps forward to enter the room at last. Drummond follows close behind.

“I know.”

It is enough of a confirmation that he is here, without doubt and under no illusion as to Alfred’s intentions.

They stop in the middle of the room, and Drummond finds a sudden shyness creep in, almost painfully aware of the bed that lies beyond. As though sensing his hesitation, Alfred reaches up to caress his cheek softly, skin warming in the wake of his fingertips.

“On thy cheeks a blooming rose,” Alfred murmurs, a note of wonder in his voice.

Drummond smiles teasingly, emboldened by the expression on Alfred’s face. “Now who’s taking liberties with the verse?”

“I’ll be taking liberties with more than that in a minute,” Alfred grins. Drummond finds himself blushing again at the suggestion in his words.

Now they are truly alone, there is no need for veiled comments. They do not need to hide the attraction that has been building between them. It feels strange, after all this time, to be free to be themselves and not have to worry about the fear of being discovered. Here, behind Alfred’s locked door, they are safe to be together.

It is the realisation that there is nothing holding them apart any longer that gives Drummond the confidence to step forwards, closing the scant space between them.

Alfred looks up at him, sobering at the intent in his eyes. Their hands find each other, entwining instinctively. The touch sparks between them. Alfred glances down at his lips, and this time there is nothing stopping them.

He’s not sure which of them moves first—all he knows is that he is kissing Alfred, and Alfred is kissing him. A relieved moan escapes his lips and he feels Alfred smile at the sound. All the things they have been unable to say to each other in words these long months, they can begin to convey through touch.

Alfred’s hands twist free to cup his face, fingers pushing into his hair to hold them together for as long as possible, thumbs brushing the underside of his jaw. Drummond clutches at his waist in response, soft silk beneath his fingertips, drawing their hips together. He kisses Alfred’s answering moan off his lips. They have both been yearning for this for so long.

“Alfred,” he breathes, into the space between their lips. He hopes Alfred understands what he is saying—what he is asking for without knowing how to voice it.

“Are you certain?” Alfred asks, strained yet wanting.

Drummond nods. There is no need to deny it. He reaches for the words of the scripture that try to tell him that this is a sin and finds he cannot remember them. This does not feel like damnation.

“I love thee true,” he murmurs. It is not entirely a recitation.

The way Alfred kisses him tells him that he knows.

 


End file.
